by Troy Denning
And the possibility that he wouldn’t die—that he would remain rotting on his bunk until his body was one big pressure sore—was even worse. Faced with those choices, who wouldn’t want to say yes to an attractive older woman? Who could resist, when he knew that this very well might be the only chance he was ever going to have to say yes?
There was just one little problem: Tahiri was a Sith. Saying yes meant betraying himself—embracing the very destiny that Jacen had tried to thrust upon him.
And Ben was not going to do that. Not ever. He opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder toward Tahiri.
“You’re too nice to be a Sith,” he said. “They enjoy torture.”
Tahiri let out her breath. “I’m learning, Ben.” She grabbed the waistband of his shorts and stretched it outward as far as it would go. “Just remember I tried. Whatever happens next, it’s on you.”
Tahiri let the band snap back—directly atop a pressure sore on Ben’s back. His mouth opened in pain, but he did not scream—he wouldn’t give her that, either. He also resisted the temptation to whirl on her. Whatever she had wanted him to believe, he knew that she hadn’t come alone—she would not have given him even that small chance of escape. So he remained facing the wall, waiting for the needle jab or electric shock or the blow to the head that would send him sinking back into oblivion.
Instead, the locks on Ben’s remaining two manacles clicked open and a set of fluorescent green overalls came flying at him.
“Put that on,” Tahiri ordered. “I’m tired of looking at those disgusting sores.”
Ben rolled around and saw a pair of black-armored GAG troopers standing in his cell door, both wearing full face visors and pointing riot-class stun rifles in his direction. Tahiri was still beside him, standing now, her uniform closed to the throat and a lightsaber in her hand.
“You guys know this isn’t going to work, don’t you?” Ben asked, pushing his legs into the green suit. “If your torture droid couldn’t crack me, you aren’t going to.”
The two guards glanced at each other, then one said, “Lieutenant, GAG doesn’t use torture droids.” Ben recognized his voice as that of Corporal Wyrlan, who had been on the raid with him when he had killed his first man. “You know that.”
Ben frowned. He could sense through the Force that Wyrlan thought he was telling the truth, but his memories of Double-Ex were too consistent—and too detailed—to be hallucinations.
“The traitor is a prisoner, not a lieutenant,” Tahiri said. As she spoke, she was careful to keep her attention fixed on Ben. “And guards do not discuss hallucinations, or anything else, with prisoners—especially Jedi prisoners. Is that clear?”
Wyrlan straightened. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”
“I don’t need your apology,” Tahiri said. “I’m telling you for your own good. The prisoner comes from a family of assassins and murderers. If you relax around him, he will kill you.”
“I understand, ma’am,” Wyrlan replied. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Corporal.” Tahiri smiled in his direction. “Lord Caedus can’t afford to lose good men like you. GAG has too few as it is.”
Tahiri waited for Ben to finish putting on his fluorescent green prisoner suit, then had Wyrlan secure him in shock shackles and stun cuffs. After testing her remote by dropping Ben to his knees with a powerful electric shock, she finally motioned him through the cell door.
Outside, Ben found himself standing on a mesh catwalk flanked by long rows of dimly lit cells with front walls of one-way transparisteel. Inside each cell, a single Bothan—shaved completely furless—sat or lay on a durasteel bunk, staring at the floor or ceiling or wall with an expression utterly devoid of hope. Many of the prisoners were missing body parts—mostly eyes, ears, and limbs—and some had fresh scars that suggested recent combat.
“The Bothan assassins,” Tahiri explained. “They just keep coming—sometimes dozens a day. Darth Caedus had to open an entire wing just for them.”
“You mean he doesn’t just execute them?” Ben asked, surprised.
“Oh, he will,” Tahiri said. “But he doesn’t want to do anything that might detract from Admiral Bwua’tu’s concentration right now.
After we win the war, they’ll all have a fair trial before the Special Tribunal on Bothan War Crimes. Then they’ll all be properly sentenced to death.”
Ben glanced around, awed by the immensity of the cellblock. It was easily two hundred meters long, with a cell every two meters. And when he looked through the mesh catwalks above and below him, he could see at least nine more levels.
“There must be a thousand units here,” Ben said.
Tahiri nodded. “More—and Caedus has already ordered another wing to be prepared. But enough stalling. We have our own unpleasantness to attend to.”
She took his arm—more to control than to guide him—and started down the catwalk toward the glowing white square of a security booth. Despite the pale glow coming from the cells, the prison was a silent and gloomy place. Every surface was coated in a gray, sound-absorbing synthalex, and the only illumination on the catwalk came from overhead glowstrips that automatically activated and deactivated as they passed.
Ben did not even consider trying to break free … yet. He still needed to find out what had happened to Lon Shevu, and Tahiri seemed to be moving him into a less secure area. So it seemed smarter to wait and learn as much about his situation as possible. They were probably somewhere deep in Coruscant’s Galactic Justice Center, but in a part of the facility he had never visited before—a part, truth be told, that he had never even imagined existed.
They reached the security checkpoint at the end of the cellblock. Then they passed through a series of air locks and scanner chambers and entered a white-tiled processing tunnel so rife with disinfectant that Ben’s eyes began to water. About a dozen Bothan assassins lay magclamped to hovergurneys, being scanned for evidence, sampled, shaved furless, and—finally—implanted with explosive locator chips that could be remotely detonated in the event of escape. All of this was being done under the watchful eye of a dozen YVH battle droids overseen by an equal number of heavily armed GAG guards.
When Tahiri noticed Ben’s gaze lingering on the MD droid at the implanting station, she flipped her remote in front of his eyes—no doubt trying to prevent him from seeing where the chip was being inserted.
Almost any Jedi would be able to locate and disable such a chip using little more than the Force and meditation—but knowing where to look would make the meditation unnecessary.
“Yes, you have one, too,” Tahiri said. “So don’t even think about trying to escape.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Ben shook the chains hanging from his manacles. “I was just getting ready to make a run for it.”
“Funny boy.” Tahiri thumbed a button on the remote, sending a jolt of electricity through Ben’s ankle that dropped him to a knee. “Ha, ha.”
Ben glanced behind Tahiri’s knees and saw the MD withdrawing an injection hypo from beneath the Bothan’s shoulder blade.
“I liked it better when you were trying to seduce the coordinates out of me,” he said.
“Yes—pity that didn’t work,” Tahiri said. “Now we have to do it Lord Caedus’s way.”
She jerked him back to his feet. They went through another security checkpoint at the far end of the processing tunnel, then started down a long corridor. Along one side, a similar checkpoint was spaced every fifteen meters or so; along the other side ran a panel of waist-to-ceiling transparisteel. Through this viewing wall, Ben could see that the hall was actually a balcony. It overlooked a receiving area filled with special security bays, where guards were removing prisoners from GAG Doomsleds and sorting them into groups for final processing. Each bay had its own durasteel blast doors, which opened into a contained marshaling garage. In short, this looked like a pretty unlikely escape route to Ben.
As they approached the end of the corridor, Ben began to sense a lot of
beings ahead—and beings in pain. No doubt he was being taken into a specialized torture wing. His mouth grew dry, and he began to think that maybe the receiving area wasn’t such a bad place to try an escape after all—except that he still didn’t know what had happened to Shevu.
Then a terrible thought occurred to him. He reached out into the Force and felt his friend’s presence, no more than fifty meters inside the cellblock. Of course, that might be exactly what Tahiri wanted him to do—so that she could use Shevu as leverage against Ben. It didn’t matter. Now Ben had to go in.
As they passed through the next checkpoint, Ben began to realize that something wasn’t quite right with the picture he had been painting in his mind. The security here was not as tight as in the Bothan Wing, and he could sense through the Force that the booth guards were too relaxed for a high-security area. The scanning chambers were almost three meters square as well, as though they were used to transfer cargo or large loads.
When the final air lock opened, the atmosphere grew thick with the singular blend of stericlean and bodily infection, and Ben knew. He had smelled that particular combination too many times before, in too many infirmaries, after too many battles. He turned to Tahiri, his anger already rising into his throat.
“How long has he been in here?” he demanded. “His injuries weren’t that bad.”
“There were … complications,” Tahiri said. She started them toward the ward where Shevu lay, staying close to the doors to avoid interrupting the steady stream of droid-orderlies ferrying medicines, supplies, and patients down the corridor. “But he stands a good chance of surviving, depending on you.”
“Me?”
“Of course.” They reached the doorway, and Tahiri turned to look at him. “I’m sorry—are you under the impression I brought you here because I’m too nice to be a Sith?”
Ben would have Force-hurled her into the nearest wall, except he was pretty sure she would have blocked him and had the two guards stun him unconscious. Instead, he said, “You’re learning.”
Tahiri smiled and placed her thumb over the security pad on the wall. The doors hissed open, revealing a small four-unit ward. Three of the beds lay empty, with their lowered security panels forming a transparent apron around the base. The fourth bed was fully enclosed, with an ashen-faced man barely recognizable as Lon Shevu sleeping half naked inside. The blaster burns on his torso looked about half healed, but his arms and fingers were mottled with fresh bruises, scorch circles, and other signs of torture.
Ben was so astonished that he stopped halfway into the room and said, “There was no reason to do this. Shevu doesn’t know anything about our operations.”
Tahiri shrugged, closing and locking the door behind them. “It always pays to be thorough. Traitors are everywhere.” She started toward the MD droid standing watch at Shevu’s bedside, then stopped and turned back to Ben. “Of course, nobody knows that better than you.”
Ben tore his gaze away from Shevu. “Eventually, we all betray something, Tahiri. It’s what you stay true to that counts.”
Tahiri’s thumb started to slip toward the shock button on the remote—then she frowned and stopped, probably hearing Caedus’s voice inside her head admonishing her to be the master of her emotions, not their servant. She turned without speaking and went over to the MD droid monitoring Shevu’s vital signs.
“How’s the prisoner?” she asked.
“Prisoner Nine-Zero-Three-Two-Bee-Tee is recovering as scheduled,” the droid reported. “He should be ready to resume interrogation tomorrow morning, assuming his electrolytes stabilize.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to move that up.” Tahiri glanced over at Ben, then added, “There have been some developments that require a more aggressive approach.”
“I can’t authorize that,” the droid said. “With his electrolytes so far out of balance, a substantial physical stress of that kind is likely to induce myocardial infarction.”
“You mean his heart might fail?” Tahiri turned to Ben. “What do you think, Ben? Do we need to risk a myocardial infarction?”
“There wouldn’t be any use in it.” Ben glanced around the room, looking for something he could use to disable Tahiri before she continued, but objects that could be hurled at a guard did not tend to be left lying around in prison infirmaries. He found only a large swinging panel labeled BIOWASTE PROCESSING, and even that would have to be ripped from its hinges first. “I won’t tell you where our base is.”
Tahiri sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.” She glanced at the guards behind him, and Ben’s back began to prickle with danger sense. “It appears we’ll have to do this the hard—”
Ben was already spinning to defend himself, but he never heard the final way. His body simply erupted into one huge cramp as both guards fired their stun rifles and Tahiri triggered his stun cuffs, and he felt himself falling into a white, electric fire.
When Ben finally stopped falling, he found himself chained into a heavy hoverchair—one of those he had seen the droid-orderlies using to move invalids through the corridor. Shevu was lying across from him, still strapped into his bed, but with the security panel lowered. The MD was standing at one corner of the bed. The droid’s lack of attention to Shevu’s monitor suggested it had been relieved of responsibility for the prisoner’s welfare.
“Good,” Tahiri said. “Now that we’re all here and awake, perhaps you’d care to say hello to your spy, Ben?”
Shevu’s eyes snapped open, and his head turned toward the center of the ward. “Ben?”
“Right here, Captain,” Ben said. “I’m sorry—I didn’t think they’d be watching you. Someone must have—”
“Ben, don’t. We’re soldiers.” Shevu’s gaze slid to Ben. His eyes were glassy with pain and confusion, but there was also something more—forgiveness, perhaps, and … could it be pride? “You haven’t told them anything, have you?”
Ben shook his head. “Nothing.”
Shevu’s cracked lips formed a smile. “Good man.” He glanced over at Tahiri. His expression changed to one of loathing, and the bed frame clanged harshly as his arm hit the end of its restraint. “Keep it that way. No matter what this little—”
“That’s enough.” Tahiri made a gesture with her finger, and Shevu’s mouth clamped shut so hard that his teeth clacked. She patted him lightly on the cheek, then turned to Ben. “Let me tell you how this is going to work, Jedi Skywalker.”
“It isn’t going to work,” Ben retorted. “I wouldn’t betray the entire Order to save one man.”
“No?” Tahiri shook her head, then reached into Shevu’s bed and placed her thumb over his eye. “I can’t tell you how much I hope you really don’t mean that.”
She began to push, and Shevu’s mouth opened in an involuntary scream. His pulse rate shot up, and several of the waves crawling across the monitor above his bed oscillated wildly and erratically. Ben’s guts began to tie themselves into cold, greasy knots, and he reached out with the Force, trying to pull Tahiri’s hand away.
She fought him, at the same time depressing a button on the remote in her free hand. Four liquid jolts of pain shot through Ben’s limbs and met in a burning collision inside his chest, and his concentration crumbled away in cinders.
Shevu’s arms and legs began to flutter against his restraints, and Tahiri said, “There’s only one way you’re going to stop this, Ben. How much pain are you willing to cause your friend?”
“A lot less than I’m willing to cause you,” Ben replied.
Tahiri looked genuinely hurt. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Ben’s stomach was clutching so hard that he thought he might throw up. He knew that he could not give Tahiri what she wanted—no matter what she did to Shevu. But how could he let her continue? She was doing more than just causing pain—she was blinding him.
And then Ben heard it, recognized that Shevu wasn’t just screaming, that he was yelling one long word: qquuuuieeeet!
Ben clenched his jaw
tight, then reached out again with the Force. This time, however, he was contacting not Tahiri but Shevu, pouring soothing energies toward him, touching his mind with soft suggestions of unconsciousness. As Shevu’s screams grew a little less frenzied, Tahiri pulled her hand away and frowned at the MD droid. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You told me he was completely awake.”
The droid studied Shevu’s vital signs, which were oscillating more wildly than ever, then replied, “The prisoner is as conscious as medical stimulants can make him. He has simply grown accustomed to the pain you are inflicting on him. That’s the only reasonable hypothesis.”
“Not the only one,” Tahiri said, looking to Ben.
Ben shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re lying, Ben.” Tahiri raised her hand, and tiny forks of Force lightning began to dance on her fingertips. “I don’t think your mother would have approved.”
Before Ben could respond, she moved her hand over one of the half-healed blaster burns on Shevu’s torso, then released a blue bolt of Force energy.
The monitor broke into an unreadable scribble of oscillating colors, and a long, hoarse rattle poured from Shevu’s mouth. Half a dozen different alarms began to beep and chime from the monitor, then all the lines went flat.
The MD droid cocked its head, studying Shevu’s vital signs for a moment, then announced, “Prisoner Nine-Zero-Three-Two-Bee-Tee has expired.”
Tahiri stepped away from the bed looking as shocked and dismayed as Ben felt. “Do something!” she ordered the MD. “Revive him.”
The droid obediently stepped to the bedside and extruded a long needle from its index finger, which it jabbed into Shevu’s heart. When the lines on the monitor did not even blip, the droid clamped a breathing bag onto Shevu’s face with one metal hand and pressed the other over the heart, then began mechanical efforts to keep both air and blood circulating.